Chapter 5
Denial is a skill I mastered at a young age.
Don’t think about it. Don’t talk about it. Suck it up.
Choke it down.
I didn’t cry the night my father died.
Not when Sherriff Mitchell came to our door to take us to the hospital, or when the doctor told us they’d lost him. I didn’t shed a tear during the wake—or at the funeral.
Thank you for your condolences.
Yes, I’ll be strong for my mother.
You’re so kind.
Eight days after he was laid in the ground, my mother was working in the diner downstairs. I was in our kitchen, trying to open a jar of pickles.
I walked into my parents’ bedroom and called my Dad for help. And that’s when it hit me—staring at their empty room. he wasn’t there. he’d never be there again. I collapsed on the floor and sobbed like a baby.
Over a jar of pickles.
It’s that same skill set that gets me through the rest of the night at the Evans’. I smile. I chat. I hug Mackenzie good-bye. Drew and I go home and make love.
And I don’t tell him.
You don’t yell fire in a movie theater unless you’re sure there’re flames.
have you ever seen Gone with the Wind? Scarlett O’hara is my idol.
“I can’t think about this now. I’ll think about it tomorrow.”
So that’s my plan. At least for the moment.
Tomorrow comes quickly.
And apparently God has a sick sense of humor. Because everywhere I turn, I’m surrounded by pregnancy.
Take a look: The dog walker passing me on the sidewalk, the police woman directing traffic, the man on the cover of People magazine at the newsstand, the fellow executive in the cramped elevator who looks like she’s smuggling a contraband medicine ball under her blouse.
I cover my mouth and keep my distance, like a tourist trying to avoid the swine flu.
Eventually, I make it to my office. I sit at my desk and open my trusty daily planner.
Yes, I still use a paper-based calendar. Drew bought me a Blackberry for Christmas, but it’s still in the box. I don’t trust any device capable of banishing my work to the unknown abyss with the touch of a button I like paper. It’s solid—real. To destroy it, you have to burn it.
Usually I’m pretty anal retentive. I write everything down. I’m a banker—we live and die by the schedule. But lately I’ve been distracted; preoccupied by exhaustion and the overall feeling of crappiness. So I missed the fact that I’d started a new pack of birth control pills, but never got a period for the last one.
And speaking of birth control pills—what’s up with that?
Ninety-nine-point-nine percent effective, my ass.
It’s the same statistical accuracy of those pee-on-a-stick pregnancy tests—so I’m not going near one of those. Instead, I pick up the phone and call the office of Dr. Roberta Chang.
Remember those four other students who Delores, Billy, and I lived with off campus in Pennsylvania? Bobbie was one of them.
her husband, Daniel, was another.
Bobbie’s an amazing person. her parents emigrated from Korea when she was just a baby. She’s petite—tiny enough to shop at GAP Kids—but she’s got the personality of an Amazon.
She’s also a brilliant ob/gyn. That would be a baby doctor for you guys out there.
Bob and her husband moved to New York just a few months ago. I haven’t seen her in years, but ours is one of those friendships that can go a decade without contact; then when we finally do get together, it’s like we haven’t missed a day.
I make an appointment and automatically mark it in my planner.
Bob—7:00.
I close the book and place it next to the phone on my desk.
Then I glance at the clock and realize I’m late for a meeting.
Shit.
I grab a folder and head out the door.
Still not thinking about it . . . in case you were wondering.
When I get back two hours later, Drew is sitting at my desk, tapping a pen impatiently against the dark wood. We usually eat lunch together—order in—and share it in one of our offices.
“hey.”
he glances up. “hi.”
“Did you already order, or were you waiting for me?”
he looks confused. “huh?”
I perch myself on the edge of the desk. “Lunch, Drew. That’s why you’re here, right?”
he shakes his head. “Actually, I wanted to check in with you about dinner. A new place opened in Little Italy, and I could really go for some pasta. I was going to make reservations for us tonight. At seven.”
I freeze.
I don’t have a lot of practice with lying. Not since high school, anyway. Even then, there weren’t a lot of outright lies. More . . .
omissions of activities my mother would have blown a gasket over.
When it was necessary to lie, Delores was my go-to girl, my alibi.
That hasn’t changed.
“I can’t tonight. Delores wants to have a girl’s night. We haven’t had one of those in awhile.”
Let’s pause for a moment. This is important.
Can you see his face? Look closely or you’ll miss it.
For just a second, there’s a flash of surprise. A touch of anger . . . maybe hurt. But then he catches himself, and his expression smooths back out to neutral. I missed that look the first time around. You should remember it. It’ll make a lot more sense in about ten hours.
Drew’s voice is flat. Like a detective trying to trip up a perpetrator. “You just saw Delores last night.”
My stomach gurgles like Pop Rocks in soda. “That was different—everyone was there. Tonight it’ll just be the two of us. We’ll grab a few drinks, eat some fattening appetizers, and then I’ll come home.”
Drew stands, his movements hurried, tense. “Fine, Kate. Do whatever the f*ck you want.”
he tries to walk past me, but I grab onto his belt. “hey. Don’t be like that. We can go out to dinner tomorrow night. Don’t be mad.”
he lets me pull him closer, but he doesn’t say anything. I give him a flirty smile. “Come on, Drew. Let’s do lunch. And then afterward, you can do me.”
I rub my hand up his chest, trying to soften him up.
But he doesn’t give. “I can’t. I have some work to finish. I’ll talk to you later. ”
he kisses my forehead, and his lips seem to linger a moment longer than normal. Then he pulls back and walks away.
In New York City, there’s one thing you can depend on. Expect. It’s not the mail, or the kindness of your fellow man.
It’s rush-hour traffic. Never fails. It’s what I’m sitting in right now.
Bumper to bumper.
I tried calling Delores three times to fill her in on my covert operation, but she didn’t answer. Cell phones aren’t allowed in the lab. I also haven’t seen Drew since he walked out of my office, and that’s a good thing. I really don’t want to talk to him until I know what I’m dealing with.
When you’re alone in a practically unmoving vehicle, there’s really not much to do.
Except think.
Can you guess what I’m thinking about? Even the strongest dam is going to crack eventually.
Scarlett O’hara has left the building.
Did you ever hear the story about Delores’s father? It’s a doozy.
When we were young, Amelia told Delores that her daddy just couldn’t live with them. She kept it simple—kind. But when she was older, Delores got the full story.
Amelia grew up in California. Can’t you just picture it? Amelia the surfer chick—young and tan, lean and laid back.
When she was seventeen, she met a guy at the Santa Monica Pier—dark hair, chiseled arms, and eyes the color of jade. his name was Joey Martino. They had an instant “connection,” and like Juliet before her, Amelia fell fast and hard.
Then it came time for Joey to move on, and he asked Amelia to come with him. her mother told her if she walked out the door, she wouldn’t be allowed to walk back in.
Ever.
Amelia hugged her little sister good-bye and hopped on the back of Joey’s harley. About six weeks later, they were passing through Greenville, Ohio.
And Amelia realized she was pregnant.
Joey took the news well, and Amelia was thrilled. Now they’d be a real family.
But the next morning, all she woke up next to was a note. It read: It was fun.
Sorry.
Amelia never saw him again.
Some kids need to get burned a few times before they stop playing with matches. But Amelia was never that kind of kid. One lesson was all she needed. From then on, she only dated a certain type of man—humble, simple—not smooth or flashy or arrogant. Guys who were nothing like Joey.
Who were nothing like Drew.
It’s why she doesn’t like him.
No—that’s not quite right. It’s why Amelia doesn’t trust him.
She took me aside that first Christmas, when she and my mother came up to visit. She told me to go slow, to watch myself with Drew.
Because she’d seen his kind before.
Anyway—story time’s over, kids.
We’re here.
Bob’s office is nice—a homey-looking brownstone with a real, live parking lot. Those are hard to come by in the city, in case you didn’t know. It’s a busy lot, shared with the building next door. Cars come and go and jockey for spaces.
I kill the engine and grip the steering wheel. And take a deep breath.
I can do this.
I mean, really—it’s only the next eighteen years of my life, right?
I get out of the car and stare at the small sign in the window of the building.
ROBERTA ChANG GYNECOLOGY AND OBSTETRICS As I try to get my feet to move, two large hands come from behind me and cover my eyes. A familiar voice whispers in my ear, “Guess who?”
I turn around, bursting at the seams. Living with someone, particularly during the college years, creates a bond born of shared experiences and precious memories.
“Daniel!”
Daniel Walker is a mammoth-sized guy. he and Arnold Schwarzenegger could totally be brothers. But don’t let that fool you. he’s like one of those Werther’s candies—hard on the outside, soft and gooey on the inside.
he’s affectionate. Giving. Compassionate.
During our junior year, a mouse decided to move into our ramshackle house. All of us voted to kill it—except Daniel. he constructed a trap with string, cardboard, and a stick that would have made the Little Rascals proud.
And he actually caught the little bugger. We kept him. In a cage, kind of like a mascot. We named him Bud after our favorite beer.
Daniel pulls me into a bear hug, picks me up, and spins me around. Then he sets me on my feet and kisses my cheek. “It’s so good to see you, Kate. You look great!”
I’m smiling so hard, my face hurts. “Thanks, Daniel. You too.
You haven’t changed a bit. how’s everything going?”
“Can’t complain. Things are good—busy. I’m still interviewing at hospitals.”
Daniel’s an anesthesiologist. Whenever they can, he and Bob work together. Like me and Drew.
he goes on. “But Bobbie’s practice is booming, so I’m the gofer boy for now.” he holds up a bag of Chinese takeout.
When the smell hits my stomach, it twists, letting me know it is not pleased. I swallow hard.
he throws a heavy arm over my shoulders and we chat for a several minutes. About their move , about Delores and Billy. I tell him about Drew and how I want the four of us to get together for dinner.
And then there’s a loud screech of rubber tires.
We both turn and watch the taillights of a speeding car disappear out of the parking lot.
Daniel shakes his head. “And I thought Philadelphia drivers were bad.”
I chuckle. “Oh, no—New Yorkers have the monopoly on bad driving. And crazy baseball fans. Don’t wear your Philly’s jersey here; it could end in bloodshed.”
Daniel laughs and we head into the building.
Well, it’s official.
Life as I know it is over.
I’m pregnant. Knocked up. The bun is in the oven and that bad boy is baking. I wasn’t really surprised. Just hoping I was wrong.
According to Bobbie, my antibiotics were the culprit. They lower the effectiveness of birth control pills.
So you see what I was saying about those pamphlets? Read ’em. Learn ’em. Live ’em.
It’s too soon to do an ultrasound, so I have to come back in two weeks. And every day I also have to take prenatal vitamins that are big enough to choke a large elephant.
Lucky me.
I park my car in the garage, but I don’t go up to the apartment.
One of the best parts of living in the city is that there’s always someplace that’s open, somewhere to walk to with people around.
I head out onto the sidewalk and walk a few blocks, trying to clear my head. Trying to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do now.
If you’re wondering why I don’t sound happy, it’s because I’m not. You have to understand—I was never that girl. I didn’t play with baby dolls; I played with my parents’ cash register. When the other kids wanted to go to Toys“R”Us? I wanted to go to Staples.
Even before my craving for financial independence began, my dreams revolved around office buildings and desks—not cradles and baby carriages. It’s not that I don’t want children. I just don’t want one now. Now was not part of the plan.
And then there’s Drew. he loves me, I know. But pregnancy changes things. It means stretch marks and saggy boobs and sleepless nights. No more spontaneous vacations. No more sex marathons.
he’s going to freak out. Definitely.
I sit down on a bench and watch the cars drive by.
Then a voice to my right grabs my attention.
“Who’s a good boy? Andrew is! My sweet boy.”
It’s a woman with soft blond curls and dark eyes, about my age.
And she’s holding a doe-headed bundle of drool.
Do you believe in signs? I don’t.
But my grandmother did. She was an incredible woman—a respected archeologist who did extensive study on the southern Native American tribes. I worshipped my grandma. She once told me that signs were all around us. Guides to point us in the right direction, toward our fate. Our destiny. That all we had to do was open our eyes and our hearts, and we would find our way.
So I watch the young mother and her child. And then a man comes up to them.
“hey. Sorry I’m late. Damn meeting ran over.”
I assume he’s her husband. he kisses her. Then he takes the bundle from her and holds it up over his head.
“There’s my guy. hey, buddy.”
And his smile is so warm, so beautiful, it literally takes my breath away. The golden couple lean against each other tenderly, the baby between them, pulling them together like a magnet.
I feel like a voyeur, but the moment is so precious I can’t look away.
And that’s when it hits me. I’m not just pregnant. I’m having a baby. Drew and I made a baby. A whole new person.
And an image appears in my head. So clear. So perfect.
A dark-haired little boy, with Drew’s smart-ass smile and my sparkling personality. A part of each of us.
The best parts.
I think about the way Steven looked at Alexandra last night when they announced the big news. I picture the way Drew watches me when he thinks I’m not looking. And the way he cuddled with Mackenzie when she fell asleep beside him on the couch. I remember how wonderful it feels to teach her to play the guitar.
And how amazing it would be to teach a baby . . . everything.
Drew would adore having a small someone to show things to—like how to play chess, and basketball.
And how to curse in four different languages.
Drew isn’t Joey Martino. his family means everything to him.
I mean everything to him.
And I’m having his baby. Oh my God. The pregnancy hormones must be on overload, because tears fill my eyes and stream down my cheeks. happy tears.
Because it’s going to be okay.
Maybe I will have stretch marks, but this is New York—the plastic surgery capital of the world. And sure, there are things I want to accomplish professionally. And I will. Because Drew will be there to help me. To support me. Like he has since the day I met him.
he’s going to be excited—like a kid getting an unexpected gift on Christmas morning. It’ll be a shock at first, but can’t you just see him? Elated. Overjoyed.
“Excuse me, miss, are you all right?” I must be crying louder than I thought, because Baby-Daddy is looking at me with concern.
I wipe at my cheeks, embarrassed. “Yes, I’m fine. I’m just . . .”
I gaze at their child. “he’s just so beautiful. You’re all so beautiful.”
I break down in a round of fresh sobs, and the mother takes a step back.
Great. Now I’m the crazy lady on a bench.
She asks, “Is there someone you need us to call?”
I take a breath and pull myself together. And then I smile. “No.
I’m all right. Really. It’s just . . . I’m having a baby.”
There.
I said it.
Sure, I just said it to two perfect strangers, which is a little messed up, but still. Am I scared? Of course I am. But I’ve never run from a challenge in my life—why would I start now?
“Well, congratulations, and good luck to you, miss.”
“Thank you.”
The family turns and walks down the street together. As I watch them go, a store display to the right catches my eye. It’s a Yankee merchandise store, and in the window is a teeny-tiny T-shirt that says, FUTURE YANKEES PITChER. And my excitement blooms like a flower in a rainforest.
Because now I know just how I’m going to tell Drew.